The Poetry in the Pity
by Immortal x Snow
Summary: "My subject is war, and the pity of war." A fic of five wars with five moments for each. [FACE family, Historical!Hetalia, rated for language.]
1. American Revolution

Just a fun, random thing I wanted to try out. I actually wrote these a while ago and wanted to wait to post them, but... eh whatever. They don't take too terribly long to write, especially now that I'm _finally_ on Christmas Break.

The five historical periods I'm going to cover in this fic are the American Revolution, the War of 1812, WWI, WWII, and later 20th century/modern times.

Regarding the epigraph/title, I've basically decided Siegfried Sassoon is my favorite poet ever and yeah.

* * *

_"My subject is war, and the pity of war. The poetry is in the pity." ~Wilfred Owen, of Siegfried Sassoon_

**I: American Revolution**

**Red **

If he was going to have the insult "redcoat" thrown at him like trash everywhere he walked in the Colonies, it wasn't half-bad to have someone at his side for the whole thing. Someone else to bear the abuse. Two sets of shoulders were stronger than one. England was right about that. But he was wrong about which set, which heart, was the stronger of the two.

Where England made a face, Canada kept his expression still, calm. Even. When England stopped, Canada continued walking, either unafraid or ignorant of the threats the American shopkeepers and families alike hurled at them both. If England faltered (though he never showed it), Canada found his courage; if the elder slipped in the mud on the battlefield or somehow tripped over a loose stone in the cobbled streets, the younger reached out and picked him back up.

It wasn't fair, they both thought to themselves, never ready to share the accusatory words with each other. England didn't think it was fair because Canada was a child, a colony—and a former French colony, even—and he was an empire, a colonizer. Okay, so maybe he wasn't exactly at the top of his game, no longer in the days when he was trouncing Spanish fleets and terrifying monarchs with one well-aimed smirk. That shouldn't have mattered. He still should have been a thousand times stronger than any other country in the world at his worst.

And yet he wasn't. He didn't know why. He hated that more than he hated anything else, maybe even more than he despised the leaders of this little rebellion-turned-violent-revolution.

Canada, on the other hand, never minded England's apparent weakness. He never failed to put a hand on his arm, physically or mentally, and offer to help. Now that he had been plunged into this hell, he might as well make the best of the situation. England's quiet, unspoken—unrecognized, perhaps even unknown—need didn't bother him. It was the cage in which he hung, just on the edge of an abyss, that gnawed at his heart.

Canada had never wanted to be a part of this war: it wasn't his fight to begin with. He still couldn't think of what he had done to his brother to make him think he could waltz right into Quebec and start walking all over his people. Make him one of his states, ha. He had changed hands enough over the course of the last twenty years. No matter how many offers America made (_please Canada you're my brother you're my friend don't you know what I'm going through join me you wouldn't have to be alone we could be independent together_), he would shake his head every time, their eyes meeting for just a moment before Canada turned his back and walked softly away.

Sometimes, he wondered what would happen if he did join America, became part of him. Not that he ever entertained the thought seriously, of course—he would never dream of falling under that final yoke, the one that would finally steal away his nationhood altogether—but he did sometimes look at England and wonder what it would be like to fight against him again. He would see the older nation trying to stare straight ahead on the battlefield, his gaze falling to the earth every time, and his stomach would twist and churn at the thought of leaving the Briton. England needed him. If Canada tried to give voice to that strange, nebulous fact that neither of them understood, England would scoff and shake his head and tell him that no, he was the one in charge, he was the one who took care of the Canadian—but his denial didn't make his dependence in the wake of America's independence any less true.

He couldn't leave Canada any more than Canada could leave him. Theirs was a strange love, less like a straight line tying their hearts together and more like a convoluted mess of tangled string that got caught up in other people's lives—America's, France's—too. And yet, the maze didn't make either one lost. They loved each other, despite their struggles and their pain, and that was that. Neither would say so. Neither would take the other's hand in the middle of a battle or in the joy of victory or the pain of loss and say they took heart because they were together. Canada could do that with France. England could with no one.

So they continued, redcoats together in defeat and victory, in despair and in hope. They won battles together and watched their men die side by side; they drank bitter draughts of bloodshed and territory lost and hearts broken—broken and mixed up when put back together, so England had some of Canada's where he'd lost America and Canada had some of England's where he'd lost France.

But, just as some alloys were stronger than others, so too did Canada find himself carrying England, even when he refused to acknowledge that he did need to be held, after all.

* * *

**Snow **

"Congrats."

Half-buried in snow, half-awake, America wasn't exactly in a position to hear anyone walking up to him and congratulating him, much less someone laughing and speaking with a French accent.

"Are you God?" He groaned and rubbed his eyes. Damn was the snow ever cold. "I hope not. I'd be awful disappointed if God turned out to be French."

"Keep talking like that and I'm not going to help you anymore. You know how generous it is of me to get entangled in your war in the first place."

"French and temperamental to boot." America chuckled and stretched out his hand. France pulled him to his feet. "I keep forgetting how cold New York can get when it wants to."

"Geez. _Bonjour_ to you, too. What the hell were you doing out in the snow?"

"…Taking a nap?"

France put an arm around America's shoulders and rolled his eyes. What a child. He had gone into war to help this kid fight off an empire?

"You really expect me to believe that? I know you can be ridiculous, but I didn't think you were all that bad."

America let France steer him toward one of the cabins on the campground in upstate New York. He really should have resisted, he knew, and insisted upon staying outside no matter how cold it got, but the chill had eaten its way through his jacket past his uniform underneath his skin and into his bones.

In short, he was really, really cold.

"Taking a nap outside and you didn't think you would get hypothermia? Frostbite? What were you thinking, America?" France shook his head; then, in a hissed whisper, he added, "Do you really think we're that immortal? that immune to pain?"

"You sound like a mother hen."

"Hey—"

"No. Actually, you sound like England."

Had he been a little less mature and America a little bit warmer, France would have picked up a snowball and hurled it at his face. But this wound was too deep for such a juvenile response. The words hung in the air around both of them like a shield that neither protected nor defended but only wounded, as if it were designed with spikes on the outside and on the inside.

France closed the cabin door behind them. Benedict Arnold nodded to both of them but, when America held up his hand to stop him, insisting that yes, he was perfectly fine and go back to the battle plans and don't worry about anything else, did not rise from his chair.

"Like England?" France frowned, not so much because of America's accusation—perhaps the lowest blow he could give anyone at that moment—but because of how much he was shivering.

"Hey, you're the one who got after me for sleeping in the snow and stuff. You're the one who scolded me."

"I think anyone in their right mind would have done the same thing. Here, let's get you by the fire. I'll yell at you later."

Much as they hated to admit it, France needed someone to fuss over, and America needed to be cared for. They depended on each other that moment in some weird way. Yes, France thought, they needed each other on another level—he needed America for revenge and the younger nation needed him for victory—but military thoughts were far from his mind as he sat the American in a carved oak chair beside the fire and found a blanket to drape over his shoulders. Once his teeth had stopped chattering and he had relaxed a little, France tried again.

"Like England, you say."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Then how did you mean it?"

"Like…" America thought hard, hoping to find a way to hide both from the question and the possible answers coming to his mind. "Like something else."

"Oh, for heaven's sake."

The flames crackled, casting shadows on the walls as the sun set outside over the American camp. The smell of logs burning and grass and the chill of mid-December air in his nose as he inhaled conjured memories France wished he could leave dead. That was all they could be to him now. Dead. Forgotten. Lost. He had no business remembering Canada, the little toddler-nation who used to follow him around everywhere, one hand on the hem of his coat, begging not to be left behind, not to be forgotten—but to be loved, to be held.

And he had gone back on that promise.

Maybe he deserved America's insult, after all.

The younger nation looked over to his left and sighed upon noticing France's distant gaze and sad eyes. He couldn't guess what the older man was thinking—that wasn't exactly his strong suit. But he did recognize those eyes, that expression. He saw it everywhere he walked these days. War did that to people: it robbed them of their joy, their hope, their very lives.

And he was beginning to understand what it did to nations.

"I didn't mean it, you know. I really didn't." America took a deep breath. "Believe me, France, I wasn't trying to—"

"Hey." France put a hand on his shoulder and forced him to stay still. In the back of the cabin, Arnold had looked up from the papers spread in front of him and was giving them a confused look, one eyebrow raised. "Are you warm enough yet? You think you can stand taking a little walk?"

"I'm fine. Let's go."

France kept his hand in place as America stood up, boots clattering against the wooden floor as the two nations walked through the cabin. He hadn't noticed before how threadbare his blue uniform was, how thin his coat and how worn his boots looked. Even next to his men America seemed in terrible condition.

And yet he'd fought hard enough at Saratoga to draw the support of his leaders? He'd been strong enough to draw the French government to his side, to extract as much aid from them as they were willing to give?

Sometimes, France wasn't sure how or why he constantly underestimated the revolutionary's determination. He sure had dumb luck, if nothing else.

"The snow."

"Hm?" America stopped by one of the thin, clumsily set-up tents on the outskirts of the camp. A few young men sitting inside waved to him; he smiled back and tossed each of them a piece of licorice that Martha Washington had given him when he was last in Virginia. "What about it?"

"Why were you out here earlier?" France noticed the young men elbowing each other and whispering as they pointed at him. Had the Americans really put so much faith in him and his leaders, his military, that they'd come to help? "Sleeping in the snow, you'd said?"

America shrugged. In his mind, it was all really simple, and he didn't get why France was so insistent on knowing.

"Because they do."

The men, having finally caught sight of the handful of French troops walking into the camp together, rose to their feet and began to cheer, ragtag flags clenched tightly in their fists. Without a second thought, America ran to join them, and France did not try to stop him. He was too busy smiling at the sight of the minutemen and his militia embracing like old friends.

Congrats indeed, he thought, looking up at the sky and watching the moon glow as the sun slipped down past the horizon, turning the snow orange and red.

* * *

**Clothes**

America was a little confused, and not in a comedic way.

He hadn't expected his meek little brother to rebuff his attacks and practically spit in his face in defiance and protest.

Canada, of all nations—Matthew, of all people—had just beaten him down, wounded one of his greatest generals and killed another, and handed him a smarting (and resounding) defeat. None of that embarrassing engagement should have happened. Absolutely none of it. Some of his people had even fought on his, America's, side during the battle, for crying out loud. And yet he'd still won?

America just didn't get his brother. Never had, never did, never would. He didn't understand those strange purple eyes, that quiet voice and half-visible little body. He couldn't figure out why Canada preferred to sit quietly or play by himself in the woods rather than go on wild, heroic adventures with him, nor could he comprehend how he satisfied himself with books and stories rather than excitement.

Most of all, America's attempts to understand his brother (how had they turned out to be brothers, again? And why so similar looking, as if they were twins? They had nothing in common. The resemblance was laughable) fell short—abruptly so—when it came to England. Canada could have been free. Hell, he could have been free easily, if that battle they'd just fought was any indication.

Independence wasn't a pie in the sky for him, no lofty dream hanging just out of reach. But the way he shrugged at America's offers to join him (_Canada please let's find our path to freedom together we can gain our independence together Canada why the hell do you think you need to live like this what are you trying to prove_) suggested he didn't seem to care much for revolution and All-Men-Are-Created-Equal. It figured, America thought as he adjusted his bright blue uniform coat and kicked some dust into the fire keeping him and his men warm in the depths of the woods. It was the French in him. They probably didn't believe in equality.

* * *

Canada cried.

England had left. It was okay for him to mewl and puke like a pathetic little kitten.

The war had barely even started, and he couldn't handle shooting at his brother.

This was not going to be fun. Not that he'd expected it to be, of course. That was just a given. He was fighting a war, for Heaven's sake, not picking flowers or harvesting maple syrup.

All he'd ever wanted was peace and love. A family. Friends who would never leave him, a brother in whose face he didn't have to point a rifle. A home without fighting that he didn't have to defend, a life of ease and quiet joy and quotidian bliss. People who prospered with him. Days spent exploring not only what it meant to be Canada, but what it meant to be Matthew Williams.

Was that really, truly, so much to ask for?

Yes, it was, he thought to himself as he wiped his eyes to no avail. He needed to stop being such a sap. Maybe his weakness, his tears, had been the final straw that had driven France away. Maybe his Papa would have loved him more if he didn't sniffle at every problem and cry at every obstacle.

On the flip side, maybe England would love him more if he didn't miss France. If only he could master his English—yes, not _oui_; no, not _non_, even though that word existed neither in his English nor in his French vocabulary—and banish all his French blood, maybe he'd find the love he'd always wanted, just in someone else. It was all his fault, of course. No one else's.

And what of America? When it came to him, Canada was at a loss. America just laughed at his French and shrugged at his English. In fact, his brother didn't seem to care what language they spoke in, just as long as they talked to each other. He never tried to straighten Canada's clothes or shine his shoes (he was the messier of the two, anyway. Any attempt to polish his brother's appearance would have just appeared silly and out of place).

He loved America, he realized, brushing his tears away all of a sudden and fighting to control his breathing the moment he saw England returning to the camp. What a foolish thing to do, to cry over things he couldn't control. But how much more foolish it was to love his enemy, even if that enemy was his own brother. Whoever had given him a brain must have installed it backwards. That, or they'd given him two hearts by mistake. What an idiot he was. Guided only by emotion, craving love like a pathetic little animal.

"Good morning, Canada." England sat down on the thick log beside the other nation, evidently not noticing he had been crying.

"Good morning, England." Canada half-expected England to ask why he had mumbled his greeting or had failed to look up from his hands, folded carefully in his lap, but he said nothing. Instead, Canada pushed a question of his own. "Why did you dress me and America alike when we were little?"

"Eh?" England turned to him with a frown. "What kind of a question is that?"

"I'm sorry—should I not have asked—"

"It's fine." Clearly, Canada thought, it was not fine. England spoke with clipped words that lingered as long as the clouds of condensate swirling from his mouth. "Really, don't look at me like that. It's fine. It was because you two looked so much alike, of course. Plenty of families—well, plenty of brothers wear similar clothes when they're young."

"Oh. Okay." Canada paused, then decided he did dare ask another question. "England, did you—did you think the two of us acted alike at all?"

"You two? Good heavens, no." England laughed for the first time in weeks (maybe even months, Canada mused). "You had almost nothing in common. Maybe nothing at all, now that I think about it. You always were so different. You were quiet, he was obnoxious. You did as you were told. He—well, I'm sure you know." He paused. Canada waited, even as England's laughter died a quick, abrupt death. "I'm sure you know."

Canada knew. America did, too. Their problem wasn't a matter of knowing, not at all.

It was a matter of understanding. A level of equality they would never attain as long as America had to fight England for independence and Canada had to get dragged into the middle of it, all in the name of finding elusive love that always escaped him, no matter how long, how hard, how fast he chased after it.

And dressing them up to look the same did nothing to change that.

* * *

**Flags**

France had to learn the hard way not to taunt England by saying America had changed his flag. He probably should have known better, but it _had_ been England he was making fun of, after all. Neither the Frenchman nor the Briton was exactly known for keeping a cool head around each other.

"You know what's so great about fighting with him against you?"

Then again, England shouldn't have taken the bait, either.

"You get to have your face rubbed in the dirt, too? You both know I'm going to win this."

France laughed. The other nation had again made a habit of blinding himself to reason. Even when defeat came creeping up from behind, he didn't see its shadow surrounding him.

"Do you really think it's possible at this point?"

"Of course." England practically spat in France's face. Bile burned on his lips. "That's not even a question. I'm an empire, you know."

France shrugged. He didn't find this weakling of a nation, of a man, intimidating in the least. His defiance proved neither brave nor praiseworthy. Not enough to rattle him, to make him change anything in his battle plans and strategies, to give him pause for even a moment. Just really quite pathetic, indeed.

"Not all empires deserve to be empires." He let the words linger for a moment before saying, "You know he changed his flag, right?"

"What?"

"Yeah. It's completely different now." Okay, so that at least was a lie, but a bit of deception twisted the knife just right. "Haven't you seen it? If not, you'll get to soon, you realize. He'll be carrying it into the next battle. It'll be flying over his head, full of stars and stripes and—"

France wasn't sure at what point exactly England punched him in the face, just that he'd kept talking for a few moments afterward until he tasted blood—metallic, warm—dripping down his nose into his mouth.

"You really have no idea just how good that felt and just how much you deserved that."

Next thing France knew, England had stormed off, and he was alone in the quiet clearing beside the burbling river a few feet away.

* * *

**Father**

When he'd charged into battle alongside England, Canada had expected to meet America again, and he'd steeled himself appropriately, donning his emotional armor without a second thought. Fighting his brother had just become commonplace, quotidian, like making his bed in the morning (another thing England insisted he do).

Fighting France was another matter entirely.

At first, Canada hadn't known what was going on. He'd stayed back with the second wave of troops, England going in first beside Lord Cornwallis. He'd stood, rifle clenched tight in his hand, at the top of the hill watching the fighting in the miniature Virginia valley, looking to the left and then to the right. There were Cornwallis and America's General Greene facing each other from behind their respective detachments. Canada couldn't quite make out either's expression, but he assumed they must have been smirking at each other. They were war men like that. Then, on the other side of the field, some man—a very young and evidently very important man—was fighting one of England's other commanders. And, of course, in the center of all the action, as always, the nations themselves were fighting, shouting, lunging at each other. Canada shrugged. Typical.

He wondered when England would need him to run in and help. Lost in his thoughts (were the buckles on his shoes in proper fashion, shining and straight? Where could he get some water—he was dreadfully thirsty, after all?), Canada was caught quite off-guard when he heard an unexpected noise. Figuring he'd accidentally missed England's signal to enter the fighting, he scrambled onto his horse, but dismounted when some of the troops standing next to him gave him a confused look.

Then, his feet hitting the ground, he heard it again.

French.

Someone was shouting in French.

Canada wasn't sure what possessed him that moment, but he began to run. Straight ahead, forward, into the arms he hadn't realized he missed so much.

He caught himself within moments—or, rather, Sir Henry Clinton grabbed him. The Englishman's words rang so loudly in his ears that he couldn't make out what they meant. Canada thought he might have been underwater, everything struck him as so distorted and muddled. Someone must have dragged him out of his body and then pinned him down, not even giving him the grace of floating away into nothingness. No. Instead, he had to watch, to grope around like a wounded man in search of something, anything, to stop the pain.

Or something like that. The Canadian wasn't quite sure.

"_Lafayette_." France was bleeding. Shit, Canada thought, his Papa was bleeding and limping and dragging himself across the battlefield, and shit someone was going to kill him he had to go in and save him he had to go save his Papa why wouldn't they let him go why couldn't he just _go_. "_Lafayette_, _il nous faut battre en retraite_."

Canada bit his lip and wished it would bleed. He'd automatically translated the French to English in his head.

No—_non_, he corrected himself_._

He wasn't sure if the sudden, uncontrollable pulse of unidentifiable emotion in his heart was pointing its blade in on himself or out at England. Regardless, he wrestled with it for control, letting Clinton drag him back up the hill (_what's gotten into you Captain Kirkland hasn't called for your assistance yet know your place_) as he watched one of the French men—Lafayette, he assumed, though he didn't know what the name signified—help his Papa away from the battlefield.

Limp, paralyzed, Canada knew only one thing.

If he was going to start pulling metaphorical knives on people, he was going to pull them on himself.

* * *

"Canada? Canada. Matthew. Matthew. Oh, goodness no, Matthew. Wake up. Please. Wake up, darling."

He was warm. For the first time in years, he was warm. Someone was holding him—_holding_ him. Holding _him_. And that someone knew his name.

Canada didn't quite understand what that meant. It had been so long since someone had held him or even touched him that he just wasn't sure what to make of it all, except that he was warm and the arms around him felt nice.

"Matthew?"

Canada opened his eyes. His fingers moved first, grasping the warm blanket someone had swaddled him in like a child.

Fur.

This was one hell of a nice blanket. Certainly not one someone would have found in the camp, even in the officers' tents or cabins. Maybe not even in the nearby settlers' cabins.

Whoever had fetched it for him must have gone to some lengths to get it.

Canada drew closer to the figure holding him. He knew the face, but he couldn't place it. Same with the voice: so familiar yet so distant. The accent didn't betray the figure, nor did his eyes.

Well, no matter. The nation wasn't sure he even cared at that point. Someone was holding him, and that was all that he really wanted to know at that moment.

"Good." The voice said. Canada sighed and curled closer into the figure, who gave an awkward, shaky laugh. "There you go, I guess. That's right, darling." The voice paused. When it spoke again, its words came out strained and almost strangled. "There you go."

He closed his eyes again. Being cared for was lovely, no matter how reluctant the figure seemed. Someone had called him "darling"; someone had cared enough to hold him as he slept and wrap him in a blanket and smooth out the tangles in his hair. That someone even kissed his forehead as he drifted off into sleep again.

How wonderful love felt. If he could call this love at all.

* * *

When he awoke the next morning, Canada had no one by his side. Only the blanket, pulled up to his chin and wrapped around his bare feet, convinced him the whole thing had happened at all. Without something concrete there, he might have disappeared into his mind again, cold and restrained, tied down by something that insisted he stay to watch his body disintegrate into little pieces, jumbled as if by a blizzard.

England wandered into the small room in the back of the cabin a few moments later to find Canada dressed and sitting in the bedside chair, pulling his shoes on. He hesitated, unsure what to say. How could he talk to someone who had screamed (softly, so softly; he had hardly heard anything at all) and passed out cold on the battlefield? Not that he blamed the poor boy, of course. Quite the opposite. Whatever Canada had done, it had probably been justified, although that didn't mean England wasn't dying to know the cause of the other nation's fear.

"Oh, England." Canada hurried to his feet. "How did the battle go—"

England cut him off with an arm around his shoulders. "Don't."

Canada shrank a little beneath the warm arm keeping him from falling over. His head spinning and his thoughts jumbled, he struggled to give the older man a confused frown.

England struggled to find the words-the right words, the perfect words. "I—"

"England. Are you all right?"

Shit, now he'd done it. He'd gone and made poor Canada worry about him again.

"Oh, now, none of that nonsense." England shook his head as he sat down on the bed and helped the younger nation down beside him. "I don't want you thinking like that."

"Sorry."

"No, no, don't apologize! Oh, for goodness' sake, Canada."

England could have killed himself when he saw the look in Canada's tired violet eyes.

"Well… how about this." He should at least try again, right? "I think you should sleep for the rest of the day. It was such an exhausting battle."

"I didn't do anything."

"I—well, I think you just haven't had enough time to rest between battles lately. We've had so many, you know, and you've never been able to get any proper rest. So why don't you just…"

The Englishman trailed off the moment Canada's hand touched his own.

"England, this is a war, and I am a nation." His cold fingers seemed heavy on England's palm, but the older nation said nothing as he listened with a sinking heart. "I'm going to go talk to the generals. If anyone needs to rest, it's you."

Years later, England would berate himself late into the night for letting Canada slip out of his grasp and off into the officers' tents—but that moment, he thought nothing, said nothing, felt nothing.

He just couldn't muster the strength to care for anyone anymore.

* * *

Translations:

_Lafayette_, _il nous faut battre en retraite_ = Lafayette, we have to retreat/withdraw.

Oh, also: yeah, the US actually did invade Quebec in 1775 (something I alluded to once or twice). It did not go well.


	2. War of 1812

Round two! As it turns out, I strayed a bit from the War of 1812 proper in order to show the context in which this war occurred. In the US and Canada, it's remembered more as a war in its own right, while in Europe, it's considered a theatre of the Napoleonic Wars. So I went ahead and included a bit of that. Plus, since this is a FACE fic, I couldn't really just leave France off by himself. :P Speaking of France, he's a bit OOC here. French Revolution and Napoleon and all that.

Since these five are somewhat less clear cut than the last five (I was experimenting a lot here - just for fun), I figured I should say at the beginning which events each theme covers. In order, the historical events portrayed are the transition between the First and Second British Empires (along with American isolationism and the Napoleonic Wars), the Battle of Trafalgar, the Battle of Bladensburg/the Burning of Washington, the Battle of Leipzig (aka the Battle of the Nations), and the Treaty of Ghent.

* * *

_"Love drove me to rebel. / Love drives me back to grope with them through hell."_ ~Siegfried Sassoon

**Music**

War had a rhythm to it, if you listened closely enough.

Of course, there were drums and bugles and trumpets and the like. Real instruments of war. Officers' calls, soldiers' screams, mothers' tears—there were those, too, vocal accompaniments to a horrible symphony.

But there was a level still more terrifying yet, one that only nations could hear.

It didn't take any kind of special gift, no divine _je ne sais quoi_ to hear the song—in fact, to be deaf to it was far more special and desirable. In days they could not yet see, America would cover his ears with tight fists to drown out the song, and, for the most part, would find success. To a point, at least.

It was that point that no nation could ever truly avoid, except Switzerland, and most of them had been doubting his nationhood for a long time, anyway.

France had never particularly liked the sound, even though he too would have to listen to it for bloodstained years to come. Sometimes, England liked to play the tune for himself, for his monarchs, for his people. They joined in, dancing to something they could neither hear nor understand. He found it funny in the same way he found too many things funny: only in a sick way, the kind of funny that wasn't really humorous at all, just preferable to sadness.

He could laugh at the music of war, or he could cry whenever he heard it. For the most part, he did the former, until America decided to turn the song inside-out on him. Until he made it personal, real, painful. Then the chant of war lost its melody, its glory, and fell apart into discord and cacophony.

The day that hearing his opponents surrender before him made England sad was the day he forgot the allure in that song altogether. No, not quite. Not all of it. He couldn't have forgotten that breathtaking beauty, because it had never been there to begin with. He'd only made up a visage, a cute little mask, to put a face on something faceless and to beautify something he knew in his heart was ugly beyond description, beyond measure.

England wondered sometimes how he'd grown from a little boy hiding behind the cloak of King Alfred the Great to a man capable of empire. The question haunted him more than he'd have liked to admit. France, however, didn't find the question as bothersome and disturbing as the answer. He knew very well what had happened to his archrival as he'd grown up. And he didn't like that he'd probably had a hand in his destruction that everyone else considered an evolution.

The Briton had grown deaf to the pain of war, the sorrow of conflict. And he'd turned it into a song. That was what he'd called it, yes, a symphony much like the ones that played in his capital. It was the music of conquerors, of destiny. What better way to gloss over just what battles and conquests entailed? How else could he have sugarcoated the consequences of domination and power and colonies?

Music justified his actions. And he wasn't entirely wrong. The sounds of bodies hitting the ground and bullets ringing out did indeed create a kind of music, a sort of proto-rhythm that all humans and nations recognized. They all knew that pain, that horror. But as long as they were the ones holding the instruments, their skill in playing and their unchallenged mastery over their pieces, great and small, made everything okay.

At least, so England thought until America yanked those instruments, those violas of victory and trumpets of triumph, out of his hands and played them in concert with his leaders and troops more beautifully and skillfully than England could. And then—insult of insults—he'd smashed them. Broken them. Trod them to pieces with treaties and promises to stay out of war.

He didn't want a legacy of bloodshed. He didn't want to be part of continental fighting that England and France both knew so well. He'd let his bosses brainwash him, England thought. They'd destroyed his little boy and proved they could raise him better than the Briton could. So France said, anyway. He hadn't been able to talk for a few days after that, England had punched him in the mouth so hard.

Music had been his solace, and now he'd lost that, too. Everything cascaded into broken cacophony afterwards. The orchestra crashed and fell apart. England only heard discord anymore; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get a hold of even a note to bring him back to his former greatness. No one sang in his honor anymore: he heard no chants of monarchs bowing before him, no lays of ships sinking under his greatness, no ballads of nations falling under his rule.

He'd been stripped of what he'd done best. Or what he thought he'd done best, at least. England didn't know anymore. When he tried to build new instruments and play for others, forcing them to join his orchestra and play with him, they only sat back and laughed. They had no interest in his symphony.

So he played and played and played, furious to regain his previous talent, until he found himself exhausted—and, worse, all alone.

* * *

**Martyrs**

He was just a little mad, that was all. He'd just let the power go to his head, no big deal. He'd only wanted the pain to stop, and who could fault him for that?

Another nearby cannonball rocked his ship. France nodded. That's right. England could saddle him with all kinds of unwarranted blame.

Asshole.

He didn't even know what it felt like to hurt, to burn, to come within seconds of getting his head lopped off by a guillotine manned by his own people in his own heart. Every little pain England bitched about—_oh it's terrible they exiled the king they took America away don't you see they're hurting me_—amounted to nothing in the face of the blood that ran in France's streets so deep that he sometimes felt it seeping, warm and thick, through his shoes. The "Glorious Revolution"? What a joke. No one had even died in that so-called triumph, while in France's own revolution, tens of thousands had died in just a year. Still, even during those dark times, he couldn't help but love Robespierre. _A republic of virtue_. That's what he'd promised France he'd become as he'd held his hand through dark nights in makeshift back-alley beds. Just give him a chance, and he'd make the pain go away.

Crushed beneath the blow of an English assault, a mast on a nearby ship toppled like a snapped twig. Salty foam flew into the air all around the ocean battlefield, but France smiled—he knew England could never sink the great _Bucentaure_. Not with Vice-Admiral Villeneuve, one of Napoleon's favorite officers, at its head. He was a lucky man. Luck may have been superfluous when it came to fighting the British, but even unnecessary reassurances were still reassurances. Villeneuve outmatched Nelson as much as France himself outmatched England, he thought with a grin.

France hadn't yet found Napoleon's letter condemning the admiral's lack of fortitude.

"That's another vessel ripe for capture," the man himself said, tugging at the lace sleeves of his jacket as he stared at the enormous fleet spread across the horizon. So few British ships, and yet so much damage done. "That'll be our tenth now."

"What?" France snatched the spyglass from his leader and peered through the thin instrument, past the yellow and red flags of their Spanish allies toward the cross-bearing flags in the distance. More to himself than to Villeneuve, he said, "Bastard still hasn't had enough, has he?"

France could hear the shouts of the _Bucentaure_'s crew as they struggled to steer the ship through the dark waters of Cape Trafalgar. One of them, a young man who had probably lied about his age to get into Napoleon's legendary army—even just some tiny detachment, as long as he could serve his Emperor—ran to the starboard edge of the ship and called that one of the largest frigates had just taken enormous damage near the aft. France watched the vessel sway back and forth like an unsteady top, its crew no doubt running back and forth in the distance trying to prevent the inevitable.

Then, the moaning wind tore his flag from the strong ropes securing it to the mast, and Villeneuve shook his head as the ship sank deeper and the British fleet crept closer.

"It's done."

"That's it?" France turned to the vice-admiral and scoffed. "You're giving up, just like that?"

"What other choice do we—"

"Plenty more." The nation closed his eyes. He hated people, nations, like this. Those who surrendered too quickly when they still had so many possibilities left. Those who weren't willing to bleed in battle. Those who weren't willing to suffer until they had no strength left, all in the name of something they treasured.

France loved his people. He cared deeply for them. The slightest unrest in Paris, in Lyons, in Bordeaux, sent his heart pounding both with fear and with concern, but not for himself. The tiniest uprising sent him running into the midst of his people, to the sides of mothers and children, fathers and disenchanted young students. When his heart ached, he tended not to his own wounds but to those of his citizens. He held them close in his trembling arms, held their shaking hands in his.

Because they were him, too. They were as much France as he was.

And so he'd given them everything they'd wanted. The National Assembly. The Constitution. _Égalité, liberté, fraternité_. Equality, liberty, brotherhood. A brotherhood that bound his heart to theirs and subjected his will to their every whim.

He wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Even when they decided they wanted an autocrat like Robespierre, like Napoleon, after all. Even when they chose to remake him into someone he didn't recognize—subjected him to strange feelings that he was no longer in his own body or in his own mind, forced him to spend his days and nights alone in dirty alleys with only the quivering in his bones for company, cloistered him away from everything he knew—he loved them.

And France would fight for them.

He would kill for them.

"This battle hasn't ended yet." France shoved the spyglass back into Villeneuve's shaking hands. "Nelson'll never win."

England couldn't defeat him. He didn't understand. He had never experienced this level of devotion that bore pain for love, France knew. His arch-enemy didn't know what it was like to fall asleep at night fully aware he could awaken the next morning an entirely different being, if he awoke at all. England could never have loved someone enough to die for him or her in shit-clogged and blood-splattered streets. The Briton would never have let himself become a love-martyr for his people's will. The hell did he know about compassion and sacrifice, anyway?

He'd never win. He couldn't defeat Napoleon or France. None of them could.

France would destroy them first before they so much as spat at his people.

* * *

**Antebellum**

"Ten, nine, eight…"

America ran. Through the fields past a few clumps of trees—perfect hiding places, he thought, but just not good enough—he raced. He had to go deeper into the woods, farther away from safety. Canada'd never find him here, he thought with a laugh.

He'd be fine as long as he kept running. His brother would never catch up. He would win this strange little game of theirs that England had practically forced them to play.

Yes, hide-and-seek, that was a good name for it. The perfect thing to keep restless children occupied for an afternoon. It was quick and easy and neat, and no one got hurt.

Until someone took the game too far.

"Seven, six, five…"

America hurried along the path through the thickening clusters of trees as he looked up at the sky. At some point (he hadn't been paying close enough attention to know when), dark clouds had closed in on the sun, casting a shadow over the Maryland countryside. If he didn't keep going, he'd get caught in the rain.

Would Canada still come after him in the rain? Would the downpour somehow buy him more much-needed time?

"Four, three…"

America couldn't think of stopping to rest. The pain in his legs and side couldn't subdue the anxious pounding of his heart, nor could the panging in his air-starved lungs drown out the rushing thoughts in his mind.

He needed to hurry. Rain or no rain, he'd decided, Canada would be running after him in hot pursuit soon, like a dog chasing its prey.

But America was faster—and smarter, he thought—than his attacker. He had always been able to beat his brother at any old game (so he told himself; in fact, America just had a very selective memory). Why not this one?

"Two, one…"

The nation wondered what England was up to. He never really knew these days. It didn't bother America too much. At least, he didn't let it disturb him to the point of gnawing at his heart like a constant question, like an incessant buzzing in his mind. He was growing up. He had proven that he could handle himself.

So why did he still want to spend time with his big brother, as if nothing had ever happened? as if he hadn't suddenly aged three years for every day that went by?

America still loved England. He hated himself for it.

Almost as much as he hated himself—and his brothers—for getting dragged into this stupid game.

"Ready or not, here I come."

Was America anywhere close to ready? He couldn't possibly have run far or fast enough. No, he had to keep going. He could still escape Canada—and England, who would surely come after him, too, if he thought the game had gone on too long. If it had gone too far.

The whole thing was silly. America wasn't sure why he'd let himself get involved again. The whole thing was child's play, and he was hardly a kid. Not anymore. He had finally grown into his nationhood.

He had better things to do than to play a dumb game with his brother.

But America loved Canada. And so he had agreed to join.

He'd wanted to put a smile on his brother's face again. He'd wanted to grab his hand—_hey let's go play by ourselves yeah just us together we don't need anyone else telling us what to do or bossing us around_—and pull him away from England. England who'd stolen him, England who'd hurt him, England who'd made him cry and suffer and nearly lose himself in a chasm of confusion and fear.

America could take his brother away from that hellish existence, crushed beneath the Englishman's heavy, manipulative hands.

And if all it took was one little game, he'd play it. In a heartbeat.

He hadn't expected Canada to join in with such gusto. It was just supposed to be a "matter of marching," a matter of running too fast to be caught and hiding too well to be found.

Unfortunately, Canada had proven to be frighteningly good at hiding and running on his own terms. The little boy had turned into one hell of a tenacious nation. He had to be. So once more America was hunted instead of hunter, defender instead of attacker.

The laughter burbling up from his chest onto his lips faded as the grove of evergreens began to thin and the humid summer air grew thicker, hotter, heavier. Something crackled in the distance—his brother come to find him?

America ran faster, shaking, trembling. Then, he was on the ground in a bed of pine needles and mud, his leg burning. With a grimace, he looked back at the worn path.

A small sinkhole. Just the perfect size for him to step in without noticing until he wrenched his ankle.

America forced himself to his feet, but, he realized with twisting heart and hitching gasp, he could not go more than a few feet before falling headlong back into the mud.

He opened his mouth to release an artillery of profanities, but someone else's voice interrupted his.

"Found you."

This same thing had happened one hundred years ago. He'd been playing with his brother in these woods, by these fields, running through the dirt and grass, around thick, ancient tree trunks. America had flown from their nearby house, laughing because Canada would never find him. Not out here.

Then, he'd tripped and fallen, spraining his ankle. He'd tried to get up and keep running, but he'd fallen over and over, harder with each shaking step.

He'd stayed there motionless on his stomach, eyes closed as the sun sank beneath the horizon, a fireball descending out of sight. Until his brother had come.

"Found you."

So he'd said then and so he said now, not a triumphant yell like back then but instead a sad whisper.

This time, Canada didn't bend down with wide, frightened eyes to help his brother, to carry him home to England with his bandages and blankets and fussy words. He simply pointed straight ahead, over the top of the hill.

When he looked, America couldn't breathe, as if his brother had snapped his ribs and punctured his lungs with one movement of his fingers.

Canada had found him. Chased him all the way from Bladensburg, miles and miles away, only to get there first.

He'd found him, all right.

And, even more so, England had found his revenge.

For just over the hilltop, all across the stormy horizon, Washington burned.

* * *

**Glory**

One of these days, England was going to get tired of fighting all these damned wars.

As always, America was only proving himself a child in his attempts to assert himself as an adult. The hell had he wanted to fight a war over, anyway? Honor? What rubbish. This whole mess had turned into the chaotic storm drowning the four of them—all for glory. All in a mad fury of pride, a lust for acclaim.

England sighed and relaxed his vice-grip on his sword for a second. The three-day battle was finally dragging toward its conclusion, giving him time to breathe—and to think. They'd gone from an era of lights and reason to a time of madness. Just like that. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe the ultimate end of thinking, of reasoning, was bloodshed and chaos.

The nation shook his head, a small, painfully rare smile on his face. That might be how he'd gotten to be such an enormous, mad empire, both the first time and the second. But no—regardless of how he looked at it, of how many different ways he tried to examine his conscience, everything collapsed to one quiet voice in his heart.

A small cry for glory.

But when he dug deeper into that voice and brushed the dirt and mud and muck away from it, he found something else. When he let his thoughts run in the back of his mind during this last skirmish beside Prussia and Austria and Sweden and Russia against two wounded Frenchmen—one an emperor, the other his empire—England realized there was something even smaller beneath that plea for honor.

Deep down, another voice called out.

Cried for love.

And nothing else, neither acclaim nor praise nor global hegemony, could fill that void. No, England thought as he raised his sword in his now-tight grip and shouted to the other nations behind him to make one final charge, not even victory in war could make him whole. Fighting just bought him time to bury that crying child inside before it could break free.

Or maybe he was just a sap. That could be the case, too.

But he had someone like him at his side who wasn't a sap or a crybaby. He had an ally who wouldn't even give himself time to grieve or suffer or even feel pain. In his heart, Canada held no desire for honor or power to shield his lonely inner child but just a wish not to hurt anybody. Just a hope not to offend, not to fight.

England had seen those neglected, unfulfilled pulses of emotion more often than the younger nation knew. Canada had never felt England put another blanket on top of him during cold nights on the waters of Lake Erie. He had never seen his guardian follow him into forests in Ontario late at night when he couldn't sleep. He had never known England was there beside him, waiting for him—waiting for him to say he needed something, anything.

Because the moment the words left Canada's lips, the older nation would have been right there with whatever the younger needed.

But Canada wouldn't—didn't—say anything. Not as long as England needed him, too.

It was that interdependence, that circle of need, that America had seen and sought to break. He didn't like needing anyone. Independence had been perfect for him. And England was just burdening his brother, weighing him down and hurting him with his heavy yoke of unmet emotional needs.

So why wouldn't Canada join the United States?

America didn't know. England had a guess or two, both of which at least peripherally involved the nation he was now fighting on the fields of Leipzig.

Canada had come to love England in his own right, of course. That kept him at the Briton's side, even during the darkest and fiercest battles of America's Revolution or otherwise. But more than just his love for England had fostered his loyalty and devotion.

It had been France who had told him to stay with England, after all.

The Briton stood back beside Sweden as France lashed out at Austria and struck at Prussia—Prussia, his old friend, his companion, his confidante. But his fury wasn't enough to protect him from Russia's sneak attack that sent him crumpling to the ground in a heap beside his fallen leader.

England swallowed.

He needed to end these battles.

And fast.

To stop all of them from hiding their faces and weeping inside, not for lack of honor but for a deeper loss.

* * *

**Fall**

Hell was wanting to apologize but not knowing how to do so.

Canada thought for a moment, then shook his head. No. That was Limbo. Getting trapped in the midst of two people who were stuck in Limbo was Hell.

He looked at his hands, carefully folded in his lap beneath the gleaming table in the middle of the room Belgium and the Netherlands had given them to use during their peace negotiations. Then, he looked out the window at the quaint city of Ghent. He hadn't been to Europe in a long time, since England handled most of his—their—international affairs. Perhaps he would have to come back more often. It was so close to France. He had come so near his Papa. But England wouldn't let father and son meet. Not yet. Both were in such turmoil already. He knew for certain what would happen to France neither one minute nor the next. Napoleon had come back from exile, after all. How could he possibly let the two francophones meet until he knew the New and Old Worlds both were safe?

Finally, his heart heaving, Canada turned toward the two nations sitting on opposite sides of the table. England—tired, thin, worn-down. America—tall, defiant, but still exhausted. Both men nominally finished with their war, and maybe even (he dared to hope) with all wars against each other. One had been too many already. Two was just cruel. Long. Unfair.

But, for all their exhaustion, the two nations had plenty of words to fire at each other from across the table. As they counted their arsenals and took aim, Canada let his gaze fall into his lap again.

One last face-to-face battle had to be fought.

"So you thought you had to declare independence again?" England fired first. Probably better that way, Canada thought.

"The hell were you expecting me to do? You took my people and forced them into your navy." Without a second's pause, America launched back.

"They were my people. British born."

"But they became mine. You were trying to take over them the way you tried to take over me."

"I was trying to protect you from France."

"Like I need protection from anyone."

"How about from yourself?"

All things told, this verbal skirmish was quite the gentleman's war, Canada decided. He let the two argue a while longer about the British blockade and interference with American trade—_screw you we were just trying to keep you safe from that lunatic and his dictator oh why don't you just shut up you wanted to smother me again you can't get over losing back in 1783_—before walking unnoticed out of the room for a drink of water. Even with the thick door between them, he could hear the other two nations continuing to argue about Napoleon and wars that were obviously far more important than some immature Americans whinging about liberty and territory. And wait, just what the hell did he mean by stupid, whiny, childish patriots?

Canada leaned against the cold white wall and listened. England and America may have been yelling and pointing fingers everywhere but at themselves, but at least they were talking to each other.

That was the first step.

And they were taking it with great fervor, if nothing else.

America had moved on to the Indian issue once Canada, ever invisible, tiptoed back into the room and shut the door before taking his place at England's side.

"Like you even care about those people. They're hardly people to you."

"That's not true." The younger of the belligerents slammed his fist onto the table.

"Then tell me." England grinned. "Why did I have tens of thousands of them on my side, not yours?"

He'd placed one of his several trumps down before America. More like thrown it, given the man's expression.

"Because you're a sick fuck who's good at manipulating innocent people. Just look at what you did to Canada."

"More like look at what you did to him. 'A matter of marching'? Would he really have been happy with people like you who walk all over him?"

"A lot happier than he would have been with you. You make him carry you all over because you're too pathetic to take care of yourself."

"Pathetic? I'm an empire, unlike you."

"An empire whose ass I kicked twice."

"Hey—"

Canada wondered if they'd listen to him if he stood up and said something. Probably not.

How had it come to this, again? At what moment had his brother grown up—or down—from a little boy into this young man with fierce blue eyes and clenched jaw, fighting for pride? And when had his guardian taken the bait and decided to strike back, letting himself lose sight of a bigger, grander war in Europe?

When had his Papa lost himself?

And when had he somehow gravitated to the center of everyone's anger?

"Stop it."

Neither America nor England would listen, but he figured he had to try all the same.

"Knock it off, both of you." Canada stood up, their inattention making him brave. While England complained about ambition and America said something about hypocrisy, the violet-eyed nation continued to talk beneath the weight of their louder voices. "None of us want this, you know. You ruined it, so you set it straight. Can't you at least do that much?"

"Bastard."

"Asshole."

"Fine, well, I guess you can do that, too." What could he say? "You're hurting me."

"You just want to beat me into submission again."

"Actually, I have far more important things to do than deal with petulant children."

"Don't you get it? You're hurting me." Even now, during peace negotiations, Canada could feel small skirmishes and planned attacks occurring along his border near Ontario. Stabbing each other in the back while they were supposed to be making up. Typical. "Protect me? Care about me? Only when I don't need you."

He wished he could walk out of the negotiations. He wasn't doing anything but getting upset, anyway. Maybe he could come back when their diplomats showed up. At least then he wouldn't have to play the silent, overrun referee.

One last move, and then he would give up.

"I hate you both."

Of course, they would pick that moment to take notice of him.

"Canada," England said, rising from his chair. Across the table, America did the same. "Canada, whatever are you doing?"

The Canadian looked at England, then over at America. Both had a hand outstretched toward him, England's hovering just beside Canada's arm and America's hanging awkwardly in front of him, too far to reach but too reluctant to move closer.

"I didn't mean it." He thought he had wanted their attention, but now that he had it, his face was turning red and his stomach tying itself into knots. Time to backpedal. "I don't actually hate either of you, I mean. It's fine. Don't worry. Go back to what you were just doing. I—"

"Canada?" America swallowed and shifted back and forth from one foot to the other. "You—you crying?"

England examined the younger nation's face. Canada put a hand to his cheek. Sure enough, a tear had started to snake its way down his chin. It hung on his chin for a moment before dropping to the cold wooden floor.

"It's fine," said Canada. He stepped back when England reached for him. "Really, it is. Forget about it. I'll go get some water or something, so you two can get back to the negotiations."

Before either of the stunned nations could say anything, he hurried out of the room and softly shut the door behind him.

He would come back. He had no choice. He never really did.

And he knew the moment England decided the whole treaty-making business was worthless and began to prepare to fight again (as if he didn't know his forces were storming across the American South already), he would follow him into battle.

Canada didn't know what it would be like to make his own choices as his own country. He certainly hoped that, if he ever became independent like his brother, he would never become as reckless and proud. The last thing his family needed was another selfish, wayward child.

So England would say, anyway.

Canada loved his brother. But that didn't mean America didn't do stupid things. They all did. He spoke up in their peace negotiations and made an idiot of himself. And now he stood a few feet from the door, listening, waiting. Wondering.

For once, he got what he wanted.

An answer.

"Canada?"

England put a hand on his shoulder, but the younger nation slipped away again. He wasn't ready. No. Not yet.

"Yes?"

"Well." The Briton paused. When he spoke again, his voice was strained and rough."We're… going to take a break for a bit. Until the diplomats arrive."

"Okay."

"And then we're going to try again."

"Okay."

England scanned Canada's face, his impartial eyes, his wet cheek. The younger nation gave him a weak smile.

In an ideal world, he knew what would come next. England would apologize. America would join them and put his hands on both their shoulders and say he was sorry, too.

And then they would forgive each other. They would make peace. They would help France and rebuild their family.

Instead, England said nothing. America didn't leave the room until his officials took their seats beside him. Canada sat outside the building on a bench in silence, thinking.

Wishing for a day, if only in vain, when they all knew how to say three things.

I'm sorry.

I forgive you.

And I love you.

* * *

More notes:

I am obsessed with the Battle of Trafalgar, which is probably why it got included despite taking place in 1805 (the other events happen around 1813-1814).

The causes - and the outcomes - of the War of 1812 are still debated to an extent. Basically, the British wanted to cut off American trade with France 1. because of the Napoleonic Wars and 2. because the British were jealous of American naval power (so some historians say). They also started to impress British-born Americans into their navy, which didn't exactly go over well (in part because Americans who were not British sometimes got impressed, too). A minority view is American expansionism also led to the war, since quite a few Americans wanted to annex Canada and get rid of the British for good. Their invasions of Canada failed (again), and Canada remained under British control.

While historians disagree as to who really won the war (something that strikes me as strange: I was always taught that it was a resounding American victory, a "Second War of Independence," which it most definitely was not), they generally agree that the Native Americans, most of whom fought with the British, were the real losers. The British wanted the creation of an independent state for them in the Midwest, but this demand was eventually abandoned, as were the Native Americans.

Although I didn't end on this note, relations between Canada, the US, and Britain greatly improved after the war. Britain in particular took a policy of peace toward the US. Canada was a bit more reluctant, building fortifications in Quebec against another attack, but things eventually got better, as evinced by our strong border and current relationship.


End file.
